John and Betty's History Visit Part 18

After making inquiries, Mrs. Pitt learned that the owner of Gad's Hill throws it open only on the afternoon of each Wednesday; so they took their luncheon first, and then motored the mile and a half to d.i.c.kens's home.

Gad's Hill is charming! d.i.c.kens was devoted to this square, vine-covered house, where he resided from 1856 to the time of his death, in 1870. The story goes that when he was a small boy the place had a great attraction for him, and that one day his father, wishing to spur him on in a way peculiar to parents, reminded him that if he worked hard and persevered until he was a grown man, he might own that very estate, or one like it.

As they left the house, Mrs. Pitt said, "This hill is the spot where took place the robbery of the travelers in Shakespeare's 'Henry IV.'

The inn just opposite Gad's Hill is the Falstaff Inn, probably built about Queen Anne's time. It used to have an old sign with pictures of Falstaff and the 'Merry Wives of Windsor' upon it. I read that in the olden days ninety coaches daily stopped here. Fancy!"

"Well," observed Betty, "I shall certainly enjoy reading d.i.c.kens better than ever, when I get home, for now I've seen his study where he wrote. It makes things so much more real somehow, doesn't it, Mrs.

Pitt?"

Having visited the cathedral and the old castle, they now left Rochester, and found that the run to Canterbury was rather longer than they had realized.

"But really, you know," Mrs. Pitt had intervened, "Rochester is just about halfway between the two, London and Canterbury, I would say. And we did stop quite a bit to see the sights connected with d.i.c.kens."

At last, however, about six in the afternoon, they came in sight of Canterbury, its great cathedral towering over all,--its timbered houses, old city-gate, and narrow, picturesque streets. As usual, the young people who never seemed to need a rest, desired to start sight-seeing at once, but unfortunately a sudden thunder-shower came up to prevent.

"Oh, well, it will stop soon," Betty a.s.sured them. "It always does in England."

This time, the weather was not so kind, however. The rain continued persistently, and the party was forced to remain at the inn the entire evening.

Sunshine, even though it be sometimes a bit dim and watery, is never long absent during an English summer, so the morning dawned bright and clear. Just as they set forth from the hotel, Betty felt in her coat pocket and found that her precious red notebook, in which she inscribed all interesting facts and discoveries, was missing.

Philip promptly came to the rescue, saying: "I saw you put it behind you on the seat of the motor, yesterday, and it's probably there still. I'll go to the garage and see."

Betty gave Philip a grateful little smile, but insisted upon accompanying him on his search. They came upon the treasure just where it had been left, and soon rejoined the rest of the party in the cathedral close, where John was in the midst of taking some photographs.

The first near view which they had of Canterbury Cathedral was in approaching it from under old Christchurch Gateway. In spite of its great age, the cathedral, in contrast with the much blackened gateway, appears surprisingly white and fair. The exterior is very beautiful; the two towers are most majestic, and beyond, one sees the graceful Bell Tower, rising from the point where the transepts cross. In olden days, a gilded angel stood on the very top of the Bell Tower, and served as a beacon to the many pilgrims traveling toward Becket's shrine.

Walking about inside the cathedral, they saw, behind the altar, the position of the once famous shrine. All that now remain to remind one that this ever existed are the pavement and steps, deeply worn by the feet of many generations of devout pilgrims.

"I told you something of the splendor of this shrine," Mrs. Pitt suggested to them. "It was said that after his visit to it, Erasmus (the Dutch scholar and friend of Sir Thomas More, you know) in describing it, told how 'gold was the meanest (poorest) thing to be seen.' See, here is the tomb of Henry IV, the only king who is buried here, and there's the monument to the Black Prince. Above hang his gauntlets, helmet, coat, and shield. Do you see them, John?"

The northwest transept, so say all guidebooks and vergers (and they certainly ought to be truthful), was the scene of the murder of the Archbishop a Becket. There is even a stone in the floor which marks the precise spot; but, contrary to her usual habit, Mrs. Pitt absolutely pointed out that all this is false.

"I'm sorry, children," she said, "but I must contradict this. Becket was killed at five o'clock on a dreary December afternoon of 1170.

Four years later, the cathedral was entirely destroyed by fire.

Therefore, it is not possible that they can show visitors the exact spot where the tragedy took place. William of Sens came over from France, and in 1184, finished the building which we now see.

"This nave," she continued, as they again entered it, "is one of the longest in England, and the choir is several feet higher. Do you notice? It is an unusual feature. Also, the fact that the walls bend very gradually inward as they near the east end of the choir, is worthy of note. Here, as at St. Paul's and a number of other cathedrals, business was carried on, even during services, and pack-horses and mules went trailing through. It's curious to think of, isn't it?"

[Ill.u.s.tration: "WILLIAM OF SENS, IN 1184, FINISHED THE BUILDING WHICH WE NOW SEE."--_Page 264._]

Canterbury's cloisters are wonderfully ancient. Blackened as they are by the centuries, and their still exquisite carvings broken, yet here, more than in the edifice itself, can one imagine the scene of Becket's terrible death.

"The residence of the Archbishop stood alongside the church," Mrs.

Pitt proceeded, "and here the murderers came unarmed, upon their arrival in the town, to interview him. Becket was unmoved by their threats, so they left him to go and arm themselves. The entreaties of the monks that their master should seek safety in the cathedral would have been of no avail had not the hour for evening service arrived.

Can't you almost think how dark and cold these stones must have seemed on that winter afternoon, when Becket marched along with majestic deliberateness through these very cloisters, in by that little door, and up to the altar. A feeling of dread and terror was everywhere.

Most of the monks had fled to places of hiding, and the Archbishop found himself alone with his three or four faithful friends, whom he commanded to unbolt the heavy church doors, which, in a panic, they had barred. No sooner had the armed men rushed in than the challenge came from Reginald Fitzurse, as Tennyson gives us the scene:

'Where is the Archbishop, Thomas Becket?'

and Becket's brave answer:

'Here.

No traitor to the King, but Priest of G.o.d, Primate of England. I am he ye seek.

What would ye have of me?'

They responded, 'Your life!' and there immediately followed the horrible death."

Mrs. Pitt drew a long breath and sighed.

"Such were the deeds of those unenlightened days. These fierce Norman knights, wishing to gain favor in the eyes of the King, and hearing him say in a moment of anger, that he wished himself rid of the troublesome Archbishop, they at once proceeded to Canterbury and killed him. It was all the outcome of the continual strife and struggle for power, between the Church and the State."

"What did they do to those three Normans?" demanded John indignantly.

"Nothing. I believe they went free. But Henry II himself tried to atone for the deed in doing penance by walking barefooted to Canterbury and Becket's shrine. Come, let's go outside now."

They then wandered about the precincts of the cathedral, pausing by some lovely, ruined arches which tell of an ancient monastery.

Everywhere stretch smooth lawns, with grand old trees, and here and there the houses of those connected with the church. Also, very close by stands the King's School, which was founded by Archbishop Theodore in the seventh century, 'for the study of Greek,' and later refounded by Henry VIII. Here that famous Canterbury boy, Christopher Marlowe, was educated. The school is well worth a visit, if only to see the beautiful outside Norman stairway.

Mrs. Pitt next led the way down Mercery Lane, at the corner of which stood The Chequers of Hope, the inn where Chaucer's pilgrims put up.

"You remember the old gate by which we entered the town yesterday,"

said Mrs. Pitt. "Well, under that same arch came the pilgrims as they approached from London. Although the city-wall then boasted twenty-one towers and six gates, the West Gate is the only remaining bit. Here, at the inn which stood conveniently near the cathedral, the pilgrims stayed, and in Mercery Lane they bought their souvenirs,--probably rosaries or phials of Holy Water. At the further end of the Lane stood the ancient rush-market. Rushes were then in great demand, you recollect, for people used them to strew over their floors."

One might stay on indefinitely in Canterbury, and still not discover all its treasures and interesting nooks and corners. The streets are narrow, crooked, and contain many very old houses. There is at Canterbury a castle; one may see the ruins of St. John's Hospital, and of St. Sepulchre's Nunnery, where Elizabeth Barton, the "Holy Maid of Kent," once lived; the old gate of St. Augustine's Monastery still stands, though it is now restored; by exploring, traces of the city-wall may be found, and the weavers' houses which hang over the little river offer a delightful view. Interest is endless in Canterbury. But as it is impossible to see it all, especially in limited time, the visitor usually seeks out the best known and most famous places; and surely, after the great cathedral itself, ranks St. Martin's Church.

A little way out of the town, and up against a sunny hillside, is this tiny "Mother Church of England." Imbedded in the rough stone of the square, Norman tower are the huge stems of giant vines. Altogether, a more primitive, ancient appearing building cannot well be imagined.

"Well," remarked Betty impressively, "this is the very oldest place we've been in yet. It makes me feel as Stonehenge did, somehow."

"Yes, that's true," a.s.sented Mrs. Pitt. "The two places do give you similar sensations. It's simply that you feel the age. I've always thought that if I were suddenly blindfolded, carried away, and set down in St. Martin's Church at Canterbury, that I should know where I was just from the atmosphere, which is so heavy with the weight of the years."

It is claimed for St. Martin's that it is the most ancient church in all England, a land filled with ancient churches. It is in the vicinity of sixteen hundred years old, for Bede states that it was built while the Romans were still in possession, and certain it is that numerous Roman bricks may be seen to this day in the outer wall.

The church was perhaps erected for the use of Queen Bertha, whose husband, Ethelbert, King of Kent, was also converted to Christianity, and baptized here. After the arrival of St. Augustine, it is believed that he and his followers came here to worship. Inside, the little church is a curious conglomeration of different styles of architecture; here a Roman doorway, there a Norman, and here an ancient Saxon arch. Some of the relics in the church are the Saxon font, built of twenty-two separate stones, a tomb which has been called that of Queen Bertha, and two Elizabethan bra.s.ses. The party found a most excellent and intelligent guide, a woman, who showed them the vessel which held the Holy Oil (a very valuable thing), and the "leper's squint," a slit in the wall to which the unfortunate sick men were allowed to come and listen to the service.

"That's something like the 'nun's squint' at St. Helen's Church in the city," observed Barbara.

On the way back to their hotel, John and Philip strayed into the old Guildhall which contains some portraits, which failed to impress the boys, however.

"S'pose they were old Mayors or some such fellows," said John, when questioned as to what he saw. "Couldn't bear 'em, with their bright velvet clothes and high ruffs. I'm glad I didn't live then! Excuse me from ruffs!"

"If the important men of the town wore such gay and frivolous attire, they had to pay for it surely," Mrs. Pitt added. "Last night I was reading that in the records of Canterbury for the year 1556, the Mayor was required to provide for his wife every year, before Christmas, a scarlet gown and a bonnet of velvet. That was enforced by law! Fancy!

The women may have had a hand in that, for they very naturally wanted to make sure not to be outdone by the men in the point of fine clothes."

As the automobile again pa.s.sed under the West Gate, on its way back to London, Betty turned to Mrs. Pitt, and said in her quiet little way:

"I think you were right in what you said when we were at Salisbury. I think, too, that's the most beautiful of all the cathedrals I've seen.

But Canterbury, both the town and church, is very, very interesting.